


Nervous flyer (and his assassin-esque boyfriend)

by Beginte



Series: Work and Play [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond loves him very much and has great patience, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Plane, Q is afraid of flying, Q is loopy on tranquilisers, a bit of fluff I think, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5179667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A random flight attendant watches Bond and Q as they wait to board the plane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nervous flyer (and his assassin-esque boyfriend)

**Author's Note:**

> This is absolutely random, but I love an outsider POV every now and then, so here it is :)

* * *

The information screen above the departure gates blinks, changing the status of the Tunis-London flight from ‘on time’ to ‘delayed’, and a simultaneous groan of 264 queued-up people rolls across the area.

After glancing at his colleagues the flight attendant smiles apologetically at the passengers who are now shifting their weight, throwing up their arms, scowling and spurring on into an exchange of complaints. The information about the delay echoes out through speakers and causes a small stir in a pair near the front of the queue.

The attendant has been watching them for a while now. Two men with very light carry-on - just messenger bags. One of the bags is resting on the ground while the other, clearly containing a laptop, is slung over the shoulder of a blond man of athletic physique clad in an impeccably fitted, expensive suit. He’s standing patiently and with a quiet but sharp sort of self-assuredness, not at all stiff but somehow straight and ready for action - or ready to step off the cover of GQ or an advert for a limited edition watch. There’s something intimidating about him, probably the eyes: icy blue, sweeping across the crowded area, piercing and penetrating like some Siberian wind. The whole impression is certainly enhanced by a cleaned up but still nasty looking cut he’s got on his temple - it suggests one hell of a fight and is patched up with one of those thin white sticking strips they sometimes use instead of stitches.

Against his shoulder is slumped a strikingly different man - slender, bespectacled, at least 10 years younger, his hair a mess of black curls, clothes a little... eccentric. He’s also alternating between looking like he’s in some debilitating pain and severely drunk - a nervous flyer, doubtlessly all drugged up for the trip. The flight attendant has seen it many times and in many different editions.

The blond’s free arm is wrapped around the brunet’s waist, holding him loosely yet with a sense of warning protectiveness definitely enhanced by the cutting look in his roaming eyes. They’re a couple, the attendant reckons, looking at their bodies easily and seamlessly fitted together.

Now, with the announcement of the delay, the bespectacled man stirs, lifting his head off his companion’s shoulder and mumbles something. The attendant can half-hear him over the humdrum din of the airport.

“Wha? ‘s goin’ on?”

“Nothing,” the blond replies. “Just a delay, probably ten minutes.”

The drugged-up brunet groans and lays his head back down on the blond’s shoulder. The blond turns and presses three slow, pensive kisses into the dark curls.

Yeah, definitely a couple.

Suddenly those blue eyes land on him, and the attendant flinches a little, feeling almost stabbed by something dangerous in their gaze. Almost like a warning.

Luckily just then an indignant passenger strides up to his station and demands an explanation about the delay. The attendant has never felt so relieved to be forced to deal with an angry customer.

“I’m sorry, sir, it’s just a technical problem.”

The passenger grumbles and complains some more, but retreats to his place in the queue. Meanwhile, the drugged up youth perks up again.

“Wha’? What ‘d he say?”

“Nothing,” the blond replies easily.

“Did he say ‘technical problem’?”

“It’s fine, it probably means the luggage is still being loaded, or they’re still collecting the rubbish on the plane. Or the co-pilot popped out for a piss.”

“Or it can mean something’s _wrong_ ,” the brunet is getting a little worked up now, though he doesn’t seem to notice his glasses are way crooked on his nose. “Do you know how many parts can fuck up in an aeroplane? One bird in the engine during take-off, James, and we’re all dead!”

“There isn’t going to be a bird in the engine.”

“Oh, fuck... I don’t want to go, I don’t want to die. And I don’t want _you_ to die. You shouldn’t die.”

“We aren’t going to die. How much longer until the pills kick in completely?”

The lanky brunet groans and paws at his jeans pocket before mumbling something about having switched off his mobile so that the control tower doesn’t explode. The blond moves his wristwatch in his partner’s line of sight.

“Twenty minutes. Oh god, I wish we had more time together...!”

“For _Christ’s sake_...” the blond presses his mouth to the mop of dark curls, and the attendant suddenly notices he’s done it because he looks like he’s about to start laughing.

Held closer, the brunet settles down again, slumping into a half-doze. The blond looks like he’s keeping watch, and the attendant has a feeling that should anyone so much as accidentally bump into his boyfriend there would be hell to pay. And a security intervention.

A few minutes later the flight status changes to ‘boarding’, and with an angrily exasperated sigh of relief the queue starts pushing closer.

The brunet is by now a bit more conked out again, leaning entirely on his assassin-esque boyfriend. The attendant scans their first class boarding passes: one James Bond and one Frederick Flyte. He wishes them a pleasant journey and receives a perfectly gentlemanly ‘thank you’ from the blond, but the cold blue eyes still warn him not to mess with what the man holds dear.

He sees them again later, during flight, when preparing to deliver the first round of drinks and snacks.

They have adjoining seats, usually considered less desirable in first class where everyone wants to sit alone, but the attendant thinks they’d picked them on purpose. The brunet is seated by the window while the blond shields him from the aisle. He seems more relaxed than at the airport, but still there is a sense of readiness about him, even as he’s reading a book – it’s a battered paperback, a Sci-Fi, and it looks like something he pulled out of his boyfriend’s luggage.

Said boyfriend is fast asleep, his head rested on the blond’s shoulder, and he seems to be completely out of it this time, not even twitching when there’s a touch of turbulence.

The flight attendant pushes the trolley and finally reaches them.

“Good evening, sir,” he speaks, keeping his voice down on account of the nervous flyer blissfully knocked out. Sharp blue eyes flick towards him from over the book and stay on him, motionless, perceptive, unnerving. “Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“One whisky and a bottle of water.”

“Certainly.”

He takes his order with one hand, all of his movements are smooth and steady, yet also obviously thought out so as not to disturb his companion who sleeps like a log through the whole thing.

As the flight attendant moves on down the aisle, he looks back for a moment. He can see the blond turn his head to look at his boyfriend, and there’s a small smile in the corners of his lips. He reaches out and gently takes the glasses off the sleeping man’s face, folds them up and carefully tucks them into his own breast pocket.

After that, he goes back to his book.

The attendant catches another glimpse of the couple when the plane has landed and everyone is up and bustling with the overhead compartments. He’s helping an elderly lady in first class who’s too short to reach hers when he sees the blond gently waking his drugged companion.

“Hmmmh…”

“Queue,” the blond says for some reason – there isn’t much of an exit queue in first class, but still. “Queue. We’ve landed.”

“Hmh? Oh. James. We’re alive?” the brunet slurs and rubs his eyes.

“I think so, yes.”

“Well, good. I really didn’t want you to die. Or me, really. I like living. And I like living with you.”

“I know, love, I like living with you, too. Come on, get up.”

“No…”

"You have to get up to get off the plane."

"Oh, alright... oi, where're my glasses?"

"Here," the blond takes them out of his pocket, and the still loopy boyfriend puts them on.

They gather up and move towards the exit. The blond carries both bags and they crawl at a snail's pace behind a few people before finally getting out onto the jet bridge where the blond wraps an arm around the brunet's waist. They walk together at a brisk but steady pace, heads close together, an interesting sense of self-assuredness in their step as they make their way forward, towards the airport.

And then, they disappear.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed :) Also, I picked 'Frederick Flyte' as one of Q's MI6 aliases, not his real name.
> 
> I'm not sure about this, it feels like Bond and Q are a bit OOC, but that might be because of me writing in the outsider POV.


End file.
